


Forever

by Killjoy785



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: Also you’re the one being subjected to this, Amputation, Binding but not in a sexy way, Cauterizing, Did I mention the blood?, Graphic description of torture, I’m so sorry, Molestation, Other, Psychological Trauma, Stabbing, Stefano gets kinda molesty, Stefano gets kinda turned on, Stefano gets sort of creepy too, Torture, flaying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 18:32:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13746831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killjoy785/pseuds/Killjoy785
Summary: He has every intention of transforming you into a beautiful piece of art but it’s definitely a grueling process. You get to experience first-hand what it’s like to “artistically collaborate” with a cold-blooded, psychopathic serial killer. Here’s my attempt to bring you Stefano Valentini at his peak in all his bloody, depraved glory.





	Forever

“Hate me.  
I’ll be your,  
Your loaded gun.  
Burn me.  
Waiting to come undone.  
I’ll set it up inside you  
To watch you burn.  
Hate me.  
I’ll be the,  
I’ll be the end that you deserve.  
I’ll be the end that you deserve.”  
-“Come Undone” by The Used

 

 

The hand on the shoulder of your tactical armor is not friendly. In your current state it’s strong as hell and wrapped in dark red leather.

“Ah, here we are.”

The voice is pleasant, almost musical. It contrasts the pure fucking insanity of the owner. Stumbling, the grievous wound draining blood from your side doing the same with your strength, you try not to fall as he drags you along. 

You glance at your surroundings through your pain, determined to find an escape. It’s a strange room. Dark and lit with hanging red bulbs. This can’t be a good place to be. 

“I’m warning you once, man. Do you know who you’re messing with?”

Your brave words fall uselessly from your bleeding mouth, muffled by your protective helmet. A pleasant chuckle answers you and suddenly you hear a shrill whistle.

“Come, now, cherub! We have a guest!”

The glare of light off metal catches your eye. The guy’s fancy knife is still held in his leather-clad hand. Blood, your blood, drips thickly from its edge onto the floor. You don’t know how bad the wound is. 

You remember being sent to clear an area and then the world had turned blue as if you were underwater. Somehow you hadn’t been able to move as though you’d been hit with some sort of paralyzing agent. Then a knife had slipped under your armor and into your ribs.

That’s when things went a little hazy because you could have sworn the surroundings changed before your very eyes and now, as he’d said, here you were.

“You let me go NOW and maybe they’ll give you a head start. You—you don’t know these people! They WILL find you and when they do—“

The man suddenly jerks you back by the shoulder, grips your wrist, and twists your arm behind you. Your words die as you stifle a scream, the position aggravating your wound. You can feel the skin strain and tear.

“Motherfucker!”, you hiss at him.

You hear the disapproving click of his tongue and he pulls your arm even more, making you gasp in agony. 

“Such harsh language from our guest”, he says scoldingly, “I’m sure it’s from the anticipation, nothing more.”

You’re pulled back again and suddenly he drives his knee into your injured side sending streaks of white hot pain through you. With a scream you fall and he follows your movement, his knee still grinding into the abused stab wound.

He smiles and from this angle you can see a network of scars on the skin where his dark hair curtains the right side of his face. More importantly you can see the knife he holds to your throat, keeping you still. With one last cruel push into your side he straightens up. Your body stiffens at the sudden release of pressure and you can feel the wound throbbing, bleeding.

“Fuck you”, you spit venomously at him.

He merely looks up and his smile broadens.

“Ah, my precious Obscura. We have a visitor, Love. Come say hello.”

Your helmet clunks against the floor as you try to twist, expecting to see a dog or a pet with the way he coos to whatever he’s talking to. What does stand there makes your blood turn cold.

They’re some sort of monstrosity made of body parts somehow moving on their own. Three massive legs wrapped in ribbon and clad in what looks like ballerina slippers skitters in place like the legs of a grotesque insect. 

Your eyes widen and suddenly a bright flash of light comes from the creature. You blink away the sudden hindrance to your vision but you’re unable to look away from this...this thing.

A woman’s upper torso stretching backwards serves as their body, arms bent and clawed hands holding a giant camera that seems to be their head. Metal spines stick out from areas, the flesh around these protrusions swollen and red. Skinless, inflamed muscle glistening in the light, they creep towards you. Your breathing stops and then speeds up unevenly.

“What the FUCK?!”

“Ohhhh”, they reply to you, and you can hear the lens adjusting to better see your helpless form.

“What the fuck is that?!”, you shriek to no one, feeling fear turn your limbs to lead.

You manage to squirm away a sad few inches but your back hits something. The man stands there and you’re leaning against his legs. He steps aside and you slide onto your back again, your eyes glued to the creature staring at you interestedly. Well, with as much interest a massive camera lens can convey anyway.

“Play nice”, he says adoringly to his pet. Your face struck dumb with terror amuses him apparently and with a dark chuckle he adds, “Or don’t.”

They howl in a chilling mimicry of a woman’s ecstatic moan, then their legs stab towards you in their excitement. Ignoring the ripping pain exploding through your side you struggle onto your stomach and drag yourself away as fast as you can. 

You know it’s not fast enough. 

With their legs like small macabre pillars they are on top of you. You’re turned roughly on your back. You can see its slick flesh open in some areas and underneath is some kind of metal framework. They groan raggedly, the camera face now inches from yours.

“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!”, you scream, swinging at them frantically. 

The fingers of your left hand glance off their lens and makes their head pull back and tilt almost curiously. To your horror, fleshy tendrils rip out of their torso like tentacles and shoot towards you. 

You try to shield yourself but the sharp tips stab through you, impale the offending hand through the thick material of your glove, and then imbeds itself into the floor. 

You’re pinned in place.

Blindly you tug at your left arm. Panic and fear makes your voice high and brittle. You hear a click-whirr and there is another bright flash of light that stuns you. 

“AHH ahhhhhhh...”

The moment another steel-like tendril stabs through your right shoulder like a bolt another flash blinds you and your screams fill your ears. Bursts of light are visible despite how tightly your eyes are clenched shut. The spear-like appendage now securing your shoulder into the floor twists slowly, pulls back and stabs in again and again widening the wound and it all pulls another shriek of agony from your already worn throat. Another series of flashes witness your torture.

“Beautiful, my dear. You have a real eye for capturing the perfect moment.”

Your vision is sharp from your suffering, the colors too harsh, the images your eyes discern confusing. You can see the man and the smile he directs at you looks too wide, too hungry.

You mutter threats laced with swears under your breath, barely hearing yourself. Pink-tinged spittle lightly froths at your lips. You can taste blood in your mouth and it sickens your stomach in addition to the pain pumping through you.

“May I?”, the man asks coyly, looking up at his monster.

They shrilly moan again and dip their head. This must mean a yes because the man bows gratefully and then sets his attentions on you.

“If you please?”, the man addresses them again, gesturing to where your body is impaled to the floor. 

He shrugs off the fancy, expensive looking suit jacket he’d been wearing and rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt but keeps the gloves on. Ready to work.

With a soft, almost dreamy sigh, the hard protrusions suddenly retract, taking some of your flesh with it. Your body jerks in the direction of the pull and then sags against the floor. The fresh agony from their exit reinvigorates you and you struggle now that you’re free. 

‘Struggle’ perhaps is too strong a term because you flop and flail and only succeed in irritating your wounds causing the man to laugh pleasantly. His pet skitters into the darkness of the room, leaving the two of you alone.

“So spirited”, he says approvingly, circling you with knife in hand, “Perhaps we do this the old-fashioned way, yes?”

His steps are slow, leisured. In your agony your heightened senses pick up each impact of heel against floor as booming echoes through your head. Disoriented, pain grounding you to this sick reality, you weakly grab at the ground, your legs feebly kicking.

A hand suddenly hooks under the chin of your helmet. You didn’t even see him move! Your eyes widen as you’re dragged back, your pierce-free hand grabbing and pawing at the arm attached.

“I want to see you.”

His voice is a deep hum and though he speaks softly you can hear each word. Your back suddenly hits the ground. Cold steel easily bites through the strap of your helmet and it’s ripped off. The air hits your feverish skin. It would have been refreshing if the man hadn’t decided to straddle your waist and shove that damned knife in your face again.

“I want to see all of you.”

His tone is possessive and hungry. You hold your breath as the knife trails lazily against and under your armor, finding their straps and weak spots and cutting through them as though your advanced tactical gear were made of butter. It loosens and he pulls it free from your body quite easily.

You have only a white shirt underneath and you lift your head slightly at the sight of all the RED blossoming over your torso. You don’t hear the hopeless moan rise out of you but he does and the sound perks his interest. He smiles

“Yes, there you are.”

The man leans in and your face jerks away. You can feel his lips brush against your neck near the wound his pet made in your shoulder and he inhales sharply through his nose, his exhale sounding suspiciously like a moan of pleasure.

“I can smell your blood”, he sighs, and without warning he slides two fingers at the periphery of the ragged hole in your shoulder and dips them in deep, making you cry out sharply, “It’s exquisite.”

He holds his fingers inside you, his eye pale and blue as he observes you coldly. You can hear the squelch of damaged tissue and blood as he suddenly twists them and you stiffen and cry out. Despite your injuries you slam your hand against his arm, desperately trying to stop the assault as he slowly rotates his fingers again but you’re too weak to make much of a difference. As your screams grow louder, his breath quickens in response to your reactions. 

“So pure like this, so free of all the tethers of humanity”, he sighs, thankfully moving his now bloodied fingers away, “You inspire me so.”

Gripping the collar of your shirt he eases the knife into and through the cloth. Your torso is exposed all the way down to the lip of your heavy black cargo pants. You make a noise of protest as you feel him pulling and undoing your belt. Your uninjured hand rises although your shoulder protests with a deep, hot throbbing. You grit your teeth in your efforts, trying to swat at the intrusion. He catches your hand, a teasing smile in pretend disapproval.

“Don’t...don’t you fucking touch me”, you growl at him, weakly trying to gain your hand back from his hold and flinching as he lets go, your arm dropping heavily.

He paints your jaw red as he caresses you and you are still defiant enough to jerk away from his touch, your eyes squeezing shut as though this gentle gesture were just as bad as everything else that’s been done to you. 

“Don’t fret. I am an expert, after all. Your body is such a lovely canvas. And I will make you so beautiful.”

“You’re fucking crazy.”

He leans back, his head to one side as if considering your words.

“You know, I prefer to avoid labels. I find them limiting.”

You can feel the rapid beat of your heart under duress in your ears. He switches his attention back to your belt buckle and you hear the clinking of metal as he starts undoing it. 

You thrust up, hoping to buck him off. Your hips twist beneath him even as your body cries for you to remain still. The larger wound over your ribs sends weakening pangs through you. You’re not sure how much blood you’ve lost.

But you’ll be damned before you allow this sick bastard put his fucking hands on you.

And being the sick bastard he is, he seems to enjoy your struggles. He rides your movements, his hips hugging your waist firmly. 

“Get the fuck off me!”

He chuckles in that deep throaty way and more than anything that has happened so far this awakens a rage in you. That he smiles as you suffer. That he finds the violation of your flesh amusing.

You threaten him with violence, vow to rip out his throat, tear off specific appendages and shove them up specific orifices, any and every promise you know very well you’re incapable of seeing through.

He blinks as though mildly surprised then nods approvingly, “Ah, of course! Although I would not have pegged you as the creative type. Please, tell me of your work.”

“What th’ fuck’re you talking ‘bout?!”, you snap at him but your teeth and tongue reveal your fear with the slur of syllables. Your words are beginning to run into each other. 

You’re losing.

“I believe I can imagine the content”, he says, his tone ridiculously conversational, “Considering your employer. I suppose it can still be considered art, after all, you birth death from life, don’t you?”

Good, let the psycho babble on. You close your eyes tightly, trying to summon enough strength to push against the floor, to kick up and upset his seat from off of you. You try to block out his voice.

“Please correct me if I’m wrong. They were rushed, all ‘part of the job’ rather than something personal, something intimate. I imagine they were not creations you could have savored. Or were they?”

A dizzying hit of adrenaline spreads through you as you ready yourself for some hopeless defensive move. He drones on. Whatever you decide will definitely tax your strength in the state you’re in but you’re running out of options.

“Innocent blood seems the best, don’t you agree? I’ve no doubt you’ve spilled your own share.”

Your concentration falters and your eyes snap open to meet his curious gaze.

He smiles slowly at seeing he’s captured your attention and continues, “It’s just...ahh...their trial of suffering through the unexpected end, their eyes full of wonder and questions as the life leaves them. But most of all...”

As though anticipating your move, he brings his arm up. The knife glints at you in the light before he brings it down hard into the flesh of your thigh behind him.

Bursts of pain rocket through you and you howl, your body involuntarily spasming, muscles and nerves reacting to the injury.

He leaves the knife in you, leans close and this time you don’t turn away. Your eyes remain wide and captured by his own single blue eye, the pleasure in his voice, and you realize from where he sits atop you you can feel a hardness pressing into you abdomen. Your eyes widen and your throat goes dry.

“Most of all”, he repeats in an almost harsh whisper, “When the wonder fades from them, when they realize that you have brought them to the edge of life and you have pushed them and they must surrender to that final fall. In that last moment they know. They understand.”

He remains so close to you, his nose almost brushing against your cheek.

“How many have you brought to the brink? How many have held you captive in their eyes as the light fades?”

You can feel him smile against your neck as the breath from his laugh lightly kisses your skin.

“How many?”

As if woken from a trance you jerk away and he leans back almost lazily. You can still feel that hardness pressing against you and you don’t hide your disgust.

“It’s nothing like that, you sick bastard! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

But you do. Working for Mobius? Of course you do. How many missions? How many targets? How many of their families? Indeed, how many? You shake your head to clear you mind. 

But despair edges into your bravado; the secret fear that perhaps...

Perhaps you deserve this. 

No. No, you were just following orders. 

He throws his head back and lets out a laugh, “My dear, don’t be so modest! As one artist to another, it does not do well to hold yourself so low. Take pride in your creations!”

You spit more defiant nonsense at him but your gaze moves downward with some trepidation to the area between his legs still pressing insistently against you. 

He follows your gaze then smiles almost shyly, his gloved fingers delicately sliding down his stomach and brushing against the bulge straining against the tight cloth of his pants. His eye shuts and he sighs dreamily.

“Such physiology is beyond my control. Not when you ignite such fire within me.”

Your thigh is a mass of ruined muscle and each movement makes shredded tissue and nerves twitch against the blade. The pain is picking at your sanity, your self control. You feel the urge to scream, to beg. The development of this fucker’s cock hard and pressing against you further brings your mind to a frenzy. But you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of breaking you. You don’t like that he’s starting to get into your head.

But suddenly your belt tightens and then loosens. The buttons of your pants are suddenly snapped open. He looks amused at the fury in your face.

“D-don’t you fucking dare”, you muster up, “If you fucking touch me I swear I’ll—“

He slides down a little, his body jostling the knife in your leg so you shout in shock and pain, then grips the waist of your pants and tugs hard. The swelling of your hips are exposed as is the start of coarser hair at the edge of your abdomen and the beginning of your thighs, the descending “V” peeking out from the waistband of cloth.

He moves so he straddles the leg without the foot-long piece of cruel metal impaling it. You feel warm leather smooth against your newly exposed skin.

“Where to begin? So many ideas you’ve awoken in me”, he murmurs, his eye scanning your body.

With little ceremony he jerks the knife out of your leg and yanks your pants down a little further. Your scream is strained and you hear what sounds like a moan come from him.

“My dear, such beauty. You must show some restraint”, he says to you somewhat breathlessly, “It’s breaking my concentration.”

“Fuck you”, you reply, your voice near sobbing, “You sick fuck...”

He caresses your face again and despite your avoidance of his touch he smiles reassuringly, “Give me some credit. A true artist would never let such a base need intrude on his creative process. You have nothing to fear in that aspect.”

You barely hear him. Pain further shatters you. Panic runs rampant now. You can’t focus. You can feel the blood spreading on your leg from the wound. With each centimeter of cloth soaked with your blood you lose another ounce of strength. You can feel his erection rubbing against your knee as he sits atop you more firmly to still you. You moan and look away from him.

Hot searing pain blossoms from the start of your left upper thigh and your reaction is to sit up, swing at him. He dodges and grabs your arm and shoves you back down brutally, the tip of his knife still held in your flesh.

“Please. Don’t move. I’m working.”

You twist and turn, moving as much as you can, trying to drag yourself away. Pain is everything now and terror heightens it as your injuries start to catch up with you. He looks at you with honest disapproval as though you were a misbehaving child.

“Professionalism is something learned and I forget your are still a novice. Don’t feel bad, my dear. Let me help you relax.”

You don’t know where the other knife came from but your eyes widen at the sight, at its serrated edge. It’s not as long as the first knife but just as sharp.

“No, don’t—!”

The blade plunges into your other shoulder and through the floor. You jerk against its ripping penetration and let out another scream of agony. Weakly and unsuccessfully you paw at the hilt to remove it. Your arms are too heavy. They fall listlessly to your sides. 

“There”, he says lightly, “No more distractions.”

You can’t help but jerk under him as he carves into you but the blade in your shoulder keeps you from getting far. Your cries heighten, echoing as they become more and more ragged.

Something possesses you to lift your head and see what he’s doing to you. How is he mutilating you? It’s not a very smart idea and you regret it immediately. 

He still straddles your legs, his form bent as he focuses on his “work.” You’re bleeding an awful lot.

His bloodied gloved fingers find the edge of the new seam he’s made into the flesh of your thigh and he slides them against the cut, pinching the lip of skin. The knife flashes again.

Agonizingly the tip of the knife licks against your flesh and pushes in. He peels the skin off of your thigh in a diamond shape slowly and carefully, his eye concentrating on his work. You feel the white hot burn of steel slicing through the fascia connecting your skin to your muscles. You can hear his steady, deep breaths. 

The back of your head hits the floor in your hurry to look away but the image burns into your mind. You mumble pleas incoherently, your eyes squeezed shut.

He moves to the other leg and presumably does the same and you let out a miserable cry. Everything hurts. Everything burns. You’re nerves, your existence is agony and fire. 

You feel him move and the weight shifts off your leg. His camera is there again as he straddles your hips and there’s a few flashes of bright white light that pierces your head. Your only concern is tolerating the pain. The hope of escape has long since disappeared. Uncaringly you allow moans and sobs to float sadly from your lips. Curled fingers caress the line of your jaw and you turn away weakly. Your eyes roll back into your head for a moment and the world swims before you as you swoon.

“Grant me your patience”, he says to you softly, his voice echoing bizarrely, “And you will be breathtaking to behold.”

His reassuring smile and everything else fades as the blood loss finally dims the lights.

But did you really believe you were getting out of this so easily? After, as he’d said, the innocent blood you’ve spilled?

No. You’ve only passed out from the pain, the injuries taxing on your mind and body, and your overall exhaustion. The flash of camera bulbs and spot lights jerk you awake and with consciousness comes the ever-present existence of agony. 

You’ve been moved. You lie on a table, heat from large lights burning your eyes and your face.

“What...where...?”

No sooner do the words come out that you recall your predicament. You struggle to move your limbs but every adjustment is excruciating. 

You’re afraid to look down. You can tell from the chill that your clothes are gone but you had sort of expected that anyway. 

You hear approaching footsteps and you turn your head. He comes into your field of vision, a large bouquet of delicate white roses in his arms.

“You’re just in time”, he says happily.

Holding a rose up high so it has its own little halo against the harsh bright lights he lowers it and runs its petals softly against your gasping mouth. You turn away, unsure if it’s worse to see what’s coming or to just close your eyes and take it.

An intense stinging explodes from your thigh. Your eyes widen and you gasp as you see him carefully inserting the sharpened stem of a rose into the patch of skinned flesh on your upper leg. You can feel every centimeter that slides into your ruined flesh. Your screams and swears and pathetic attempts to struggle do nothing. He works with a concentration that appears to rival your noises of protest. 

Soon both upper legs are full of roses. Some of the stems begin absorbing the color of your blood turning them a sickly reddish hue at the petals’ edges. He leans back and admires his work, even bends down to the blossoms and inhales deeply as though in a garden.

“It’s all coming together perfectly. I know you’ll love it.”

Next comes a thick black wire that cuts into the skin of your legs as he binds them together, pulling them taut, his face stern with focus. Your legs are throbbing, pulsing as the circulation is compromised.

“Bear with me on this next part, dear. It will be worth it. I promise.”

With sudden brutality he slams your left arm down against the table and secures it tightly with straps you weren’t aware of. You moan in fear as he brandishes a sort of butcher’s cleaver. He raises it, then pauses and looks at you with some concern.

“This may get messy”, he says apologetically, but then he brightens, “Ah, but isn’t that so with the process of birth? The same can be said for the creation of art.”

He brings his arm down with a ferocity that terrifies you. The cut is hard and deep into your bicep. The blade sticks into your bone. Blood spurts onto both of you. Your body stiffens and your lungs feel they might explode from the intensity of your screams as he brings the cleaver down again and again until you feel a weight give. Your arm lies listless and separate from the rest of you. He picks it up, ignoring your cries and swears, places it carefully behind him somewhere. 

His back is turned to you for a time. You can feel the blood spilling out of you, hear it spattering onto the floor steadily. Sheer terror makes your mind go a pristine, shimmering white and for a few moments it’s all you know.

Sudden searing heat erupts and grounds you. You can hear and smell sizzling flesh. He’s holding some sort of metal, heated to a glowing orange, against the stump of your arm, cauterizing it. 

You pass out again, your shriek of agony echoing through the room.

When you wake again you notice another change. In place of your crudely amputated limb is metal framework shaped as an arm, bent, it’s delicate fingers loosely holding a small bunch of gently wilted red roses as though in offering.

Your left arm has been reattached but not where nature intended. It’s been stitched into the knife wound over your ribs and positioned with the palm of your hand up. Thorny vines hold it in place, crossing over your chest and waist. Some of the vines have been threaded through your flesh, a few thorns poking through the skin.

“Such progress!”

Your eyes blearily wander towards the sound of his voice. He’s a blurry image through the tears that start falling.

You can only manage to groan, most of your words unintelligible sobs and you start to cry.

“Yes, I know, I’m eager for the finished product myself.”

Your cries heighten in volume as the finality hits you. There’s no escape. There’s no rescue. Do they even know where you are? Even if they did, what did you expect?

Your despair is apparent and he takes the opportunity to take a picture.

You weep openly. Your cries sound so small, so pathetic. Without your armor, without your weapons you’ve been reduced to this helpless, bloody mess covered in fucking flowers.

Another flash of his camera and you grit your teeth weakly, turning away. He doesn’t stop. His breathing is shallow, excited, and you can hear him murmur in approval every so often.

You beg him to stop.

Another bright glare shocks you and you moan, shaking your head. Your tears have wasted for now. Your eyes sore and watery and you look at your killer as he lowers the camera. 

“Are you ready?”, he asks eagerly, his voice is edged with a fervor that shatters you. His single eye is wide, inhuman in its intensity.

Your nerves are in a frenzy and your legs are painfully numb. You test them by trying to shift and you cry out again at the sensation. 

He moves away and you hear rustling, what sounds like ropes being dragged through pulleys. You’re being pulled upright and the weight of your body is almost too much.

Now you can see just how much blood there is. Puddling on the floor, covering the table, still dripping off of you. You feel numbly amazed you’re not dead yet.

“Are...are you going to kill me?”

You’re surprised you can speak at all. Your chest rises and falls, occasionally your breath hitches as you allow yourself to sob every now and then.

The shuffling and sound of ropes pause and you hang in midair, perhaps a foot or so off the ground. You feel a caress to your cheek and he looks at you endearingly.

“Of course not. I would never pick such a beautiful flower for my own selfish need. To do so would simply be a tragedy.”

You begin to cry in earnest. Why not? You want to scream at him and demand his reason for letting you exist in torment. 

“Come now, angel. Don’t you cry. Don’t be afraid.”

He slips his hands behind either side of your head and in your binds you sway towards him, the ropes creaking softly. You can feel his cheek against yours as you sob unrestrained. He nuzzles his head against you.

“You are beautiful. And you’re going to live forever.”

You feel his lips pressing against yours. He ignores that your mouth does not react as it’s frozen in its grimace of pain, melding against you in the guise of a sweet, innocent kiss. When he pulls away you can see crimson staining his slight smile.

With that, a thin veil is placed over your face and allowed to flow behind you. You see through the gauze a crown of thorny roses that he places lightly atop your head, the thorns pricking you through the veil. Your remaining arm is lifted up with thin black wire, positioned as though you were reaching for the heavens. He tilts your chin up and your head falls back as he positions the ropes so you hang higher, your body tilted slightly backwards. 

“Rising from the pain of this world into the glory of eternity”, he says to you, his voice hushed in awe.

Your eyes stay open behind the veil. You can feel every erratic beat of your heart throughout your body and it is excruciating. You pray for the end.

There is a loud bang and he suddenly appears before you, wreathed in an aura of blue hazy smoke. You can see a sapphire glow from his normally covered eye.

In less than a second he has deeply and brutally slashed his knife across your throat and suddenly he is gone. In a massive arterial spray your life blooms outward like a crimson fountain. You inhale blood and start to choke. 

A blinding flash of light assaults you a final time and captures you in a world of blue. What you can’t see is the blood from your lacerated neck spilling in a graceful, powerful arc slowly, only to pull back in and flow out violently again and again. 

You can feel the very moment your heart stops, your eyes glaze to see blackness, your lungs only going through the final motions of breathing. And you feel it over and over.

“Welcome to forever, my masterpiece.”

—-end

“You should have known  
The price of evil  
And it hurts to know  
That you belong here, yeah.  
No one to call.  
Everybody to fear.  
Your tragic fate is looking so clear, yeah.  
Ooh, it's your fuckin' nightmare.”  
-“Nightmare” by Avenged Sevenfold

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so I wanted Stefano to be more hands-on with this work. This was actually supposed to be another cutesy Obscura story but I’m not sure what happened. So if you liked “The Camera Loves You, Baby” you can expect another one of the sort, as well as a new chapter of “Smoke” if you’re following that hopefully soon. As for this story, all I can say is at least you kinda deserved that ending? And yeah Stefano got a little turned on but although he might feel a little too...passionate about his work sometimes (i.e. theatre-scene in game where he traumatizes poor Sebastian for not the last or first time) he is a professional and apparently a gentleman. Hope you enjoyed being killed!


End file.
